Dark Lord Certification
by Arawndil
Summary: After his death, Voldemort finds himself in a distressing situation. Suddenly, an unexpected source offers an escape, if he can but pass the test.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-based work. All characters and referenced events in this work belong to their respective owners and I place no claim of ownership or property rights on any of them, not that acknowledging this would stop any copyright wolves in the highly unlikely event that they ever bothered to look into this. **

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The shade glided doggedly through the Void, a sickly, flickering candle-flame in the thick, tangible darkness that clogged the metaphorical and perfectly non-existent air.

A sheet of yellowed parchment, or the perception thereof, was gripped resolutely and a tiny bit desperately by spidery, ethereal hands. Noxious light flared, brief and

weak, as the wretched thing stopped and glanced down to read the flyer for the thirty-seventh time. The page was etched in a burning red script, winding and coiling

in a manner completely alien to him. In an instant, though, the script shifted, writhed and shook like a murderous snake, settling again into letters and words he could

understand.

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**DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO BE A DARK LORD?**

**DO YOU ENJOY HOLDING THE LIVES OF OTHERS IN YOUR HANDS OR OTHER APPENDAGES? **

**DO YOU HAVE EXPERIENCE ACQUIRING AND USING LARGE NUMBERS OF SUBORDINATES FOR YOUR OWN ENDS, WITH OR WITHOUT FREE WILL? **

**DO YOU HAVE TALENT OR ABILITY PERTAINING TO THE SUPERNATURAL OR THE EQUIVALENT THEREOF?**

**HAVE YOU BEEN DESCRIBED AS "CRUEL, ABOMINABLE, MONSTROUS, AND/OR A STAIN UPON THE FABRIC OF THE UNIVERSE?"**

**IF SO, GET YOUR OFFICIAL DARK LORD CERTIFICATION TODAY!**

**PRESTIGE!**

**PRIVILEGE!**

**A FANCY PLAQUE!**

**THEY CAN ALL BE YOURS IF YOU QUALIFY!**

**AND FOR ALL YOU DECEASED MORTALS FLOATING AROUND OUT THERE, OUR NEW AND IMPROVED REANIMATION SYSTEM CAN HAVE YOU UP AND KILLING AGAIN IN A JIFFY!**

**FOLLOW THE DIRECTIONS ON THE BACK TO BEGIN!**

**DON'T DELAY, BE EVIL TODAY!**

Printed and distributed by the Department of Masterful Villainy

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The shade turned the flyer over to find an ornate arrow; it too etched as if in burning embers. For a moment it was straight and still. However, no sooner did he begin

moving again did it turn slightly to the left, as if on an axis. Red, reptilian eyes followed it intently as the shade turned with it, making it straight again before continuing

on, following the smouldering compass through the tides of inky fog. Eventually, he found himself at his destination, as it suddenly rose up out of the gloom, and the

shade hesitated for a moment, in no way finding what he had expected.

The building was, truth be told, disturbingly mundane. From the basic rectangular shape to the simple and unadorned concrete walls, it wholly lacked the

dark and intimidating grandeur expected in such a setting. Indeed, the brazen and clearly intentional contempt and disinterest for his opinion and expectations chilled

and rattled the shade far more deeply than any bizarre morbid architecture or gothic cliché could have. And yet, there could be no mistake, as the blocky black letters

above the glass double-doors proclaiming it as the 'Department of Masterful Villainy' made abundantly clear. He heaved a sigh, equal parts relief, trepidation and

resolve. At last, he let the seed of desperate hope inside him grow a little.

_'This isn't over, not by a long shot.'_

When awareness had returned to him and he found himself in the jet black mists of the Void, he needed only to recall his last memories, the fated duel against his

most hated foe, his rage and frustration and waxing fear, and a sudden flash of emerald light.

The inevitable conclusion had been horrifyingly and undeniably clear. The event he had occupied his life trying to avert having finally come to pass, he had, in as

dignified a manner as he could muster, proceeded to flail about and wail uncontrollably, at least until the flyer had flown out of the darkness like a great pale bat and

promptly adhered to his face, silencing his cries. The shade smiled faintly.

"Well, really. How hard can it be?"

Quickly and exuding what he hoped looked like confidence, Voldemort pressed forward through the entrance.

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**(A/C) Well, I hope my first published fic managed to catch your attention! Please leave a review, constructive criticism welcome!**

**Well, this was one plot bunny that just wouldn't die. I've already written several chapters, will post more if I get some reviews!**


	2. The Madness Begins

Chapter 1: The Madness Begins

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Voldemort flinched at the garishly cheerful bell that rang as he opened the door, finding himself in a moderately sized room with a white tile floor and drab, off-white walls, filled with the sharp, harsh aroma of strong cleaning fluids and a stuffy heat that spoke of a broken air conditioner. A row of thinly padded chairs lined one side, while a vending machine and the potted topiary of a cube occupied two of the corners. Aging light fixtures filled the place with a familiarly unpleasant yellow light that made him squint after the thick, cloying darkness outside.

As his vision recovered, his attention was suddenly drawn to something on one of the chairs. As he came closer, he discovered, to his great surprise, a neatly folded copy of _The Daily Prophet._ Intrigued, Voldemort picked it up and glanced over the front page.

**Voldemort Slain! Potter a National Hero!**

He stared at the page for several seconds, watching the picture of Potter smile tiredly as his cohorts frolicked about him. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, repressing the urge to have another breakdown like when he had first awoken.

'_So it's true then',_ he thought dully. '_The horcruxes failed. I really am…'_

And they were _using_ his _name!_

Their lack of fear for him rekindled his heart with rage, and furiously he flipped through the pages.

There was a long article about a new provisional government replacing the Ministry of Magic, and Voldemort allowed himself some small satisfaction for how irreparably he had discredited it. A great number of arrests were listed, mostly consisting of his Death Eaters and various pawns, with the interesting addition of Rita Skeeter under charges of libel and unregistered Animagia.

_At least she won't be able to write anything about ME…_

Before he could read any further, he was startled by a small sound from across the room, like a page being turned, and he quickly realized he was not alone.

At the far end of the room there was a receptionist's desk, not unlike the ticket counter at King's Cross he remembered so well, and inside was a tall, dark-haired man in a business suit, his feet propped up on the desk and his face obscured behind a copy of "Engineering Magazine".

Voldemort frowned tightly and put down the newspaper, annoyed.

The bell he had triggered when he walked in had been hideously shrill and obnoxious, surely impossible not for one not to notice. His bloated pride stinging, he ground his teeth as he settled on the only possible explanation.

'_Insolent cad! How dare he ignore ME!?' _he seethed inwardly.

Furious over this perceived slight, the dark wizard strode menacingly toward the back of the room, black robes flapping dramatically behind him, determined to put the impudent receptionist in his place.

"Foolish wretch!" he cried, slamming his hands down dramatically on the hard wood of the desk with a loud slap. "Just who do you think you are, that you dare disrespect ME, the great and mighty Lor-"

"**Quiet."**

Voldemort doubled over in shock, slamming his head on the desk as the air was forcibly ripped from his lungs and his tongue shoved backward down his throat. Quickly losing his balance, he stumbled and crumpled to the floor, where he lay twitching for a few seconds.

"**Release."**

In an instant, Voldemort felt his lungs balloon with air again and his tongue flip back into its natural position. Pushing himself up on all fours with all the dignity he could gather, he looked up at the receptionist, who was leaning over the desk looking down at him with a very small, very unpleasant smile.

If Voldemort had hair anywhere on his body, it would have stood straight up as goose bumps rapidly appeared, despite the uncomfortable heat of the room.

The receptionist's face recalled a Roman marble sculpture dug from the ashes of Pompeii. It was perfectly formed and clean-shaven, regal, magnificent, but pitted and corroded, charred and blackened as if by smoke to an ashen grey tone. His long, ink-black hair was bound in a ponytail, with perfectly trimmed bangs hanging down to frame his face in long curtains cut back above his eyes.

The _eyes…_

Voldemort had glanced at them for only an instant, but that instant had been burned (perhaps literally) indelibly into his mind. The pupils were vertical slits, much like his, but the similarities ended there. They were sunk into irises like deep vats of molten gold, which seemed to spin and churn hypnotically with a bright metallic glow. These, in turn, were swallowed by sclera of what could only be living flame, pools of crimson magma flickering with fiercely hued tongues overflowing from deep-set sockets of burning ruby coals. He wore a black tie with his dark business suit, emblazoned with a stylized depiction of a lidless red eye.

Coming to his feet, the dark wizard felt a slow, creeping chill spread through his body from the pit of his stomach. After a moment of confusion, he suddenly recognized it from one of his earliest memories of his miserable orphaned childhood.

When he was about five, the orphanage staff had taken him and the other orphans to the Forest of Dean for a field trip. Even then, he had avoided and been avoided by the other orphans, and he had promptly snuck away from the main group and, after roaming the woods a short distance, came upon a weedy pond with a debilitated dock. Having nothing better to do, he had sat on the edge of the dock and dangled his toes in the water. Suddenly he had felt a sharp vise close over his foot and pull him down into the water as he let out a short, shrill cry. By sheer luck, he fell on top of what was pulling him, which years later he deduced had been a grindylow, breaking its grip and allowing him to escape to the shore.

He had all but forgotten that feeling, having never quiet felt it again since, not even when he had lost his body, but he felt it now. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that despite being dead, his existence was currently in very real and dire peril.

"**Well, you didn't pass out, that's certainly something." **the terrible being muttered pensively.

"**There may be hope here for you yet, Mr. Riddle."**

Voldemort, looking pointedly at the wall four feet to the left of the receptionist, took a deep breath, and another, and another.

"How do you know that name?" he asked calmly, having finally mastered himself again.

He could feel, rather than see the being smirk.

"**My, my, you should know better than to ask such a silly question, considering the circumstances."**

He lightly tapped the solid platinum name plate on the desk and burning red letters flared to life.

Sauron Gorthaur, Second Dark Lord

"**Welcome to the big leagues, sonny boy."**

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(A/N) Ah, now things can get rolling. Be prepared for shenanigans next chapter! It will be a good deal longer than these last two, I think. I've already made a good deal of progress on it, so it shouldn't be too much of a wait. I want to thank those who left reviews, for the encouragement and critiques alike. They keep this tale rolling, so please feel free to share your thoughts! Good night and thanks for reading!


	3. You're Playing With The Big Boys Now

Chapter 2: You're Playing with the Big Boys Now

**Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan-based work. All characters and referenced events in this work belong to their respective owners and I place no claim of ownership or property rights on any of them, not that acknowledging this would stop any copyright wolves in the highly unlikely event that they ever bothered to look into this.**

* * *

Voldemort glanced at the name plate, then back to Sauron, who was leaning back in his desk chair looking quite pleased with himself, then back to the name plate. The wheels in his brain turned for a few seconds before he had the grace to cough uncomfortably.

Sauron gave a pearly, shark-like grin, his ashy skin cracking slightly to show smoldering flesh underneath, and his eldritch eyes flared with a hellish glow.

Voldemort suddenly felt very naked and exposed, like a snake that had caught the eye of a hawk. He unconsciously pulled his robes more tightly around his body, as if to shield himself from the baleful gaze which seemed to pierce his very essence. For a moment he felt a sudden, animal urge to flee, to flee out into the darkness until he found some damp crevice in which to hide from those eyes.

But his fear of death, the fear that had dogged him all the days of his life, the fear that had come to pass despite all his schemes and machinations and now threatened to swallow him forever; that fear was greater.

And so he squared his jaw, mastering himself, and met that gaze with an iron will. As he did so, the fire in them seemed to diminish, but the predatory grin grew.

"I am Lord Voldemort," he declared imperiously, "whose name even the mighty fear to speak, master of Britain, scion of Slytherin and the greatest wizard to ever live. I walked paths through the deepest depths of magic, where none before me have dared to tread, and emerged their master. In light of this, I hereby demand-"

"**That's nice. Hold that thought, would you?"**

Quite literally floating to his feet, Sauron slid out from behind the desk with leonine grace and strode over to the nearby vending machine and proceeded to plunge his hand through the glass with a bizarre sucking sound.

Voldemort's eye twitched sporadically, irate with being dismissed so flippantly.

Sauron fumbled around for a few seconds before drawing his hand out, this time with an even more discomforting sound, clutching a small parcel.

The wizard frowned tightly. Terrifying or not, he wasn't going to wait until after this creature's lunch break to get some answers.

He opened his mouth to protest hotly, but quickly thought better of it.

'_No, that did not end well the last time,' _he thought with a pained grimace._ 'Until I can figure out how this THING did that to me, I need to play nice.'_

"Pardon me, (he hissed internally)...sir," Voldemort began with nauseating cordiality. "Could we perhaps discuss my certif-."

_Crackle._

Voldemort's reptilian eyes dilated as a familiar, intoxicating smell enveloped him.

"You son of a Kneazle," he whispered.

Sauron chuckled scornfully, a deep metallic sound.

"**Indeed, **_**Thomas**_**. There are no dirty little secrets here."**

He reached into the bag and began slowly tossing the Cheetos one by one into the air, where they were incinerated in a flash of maroon flame.

"**Oh, whatever shall I do?" **Sauron whined petulantly in a mocking but perfect imitation of Voldemort's voice. **"My followers must never discover my love of this filthy Muggle snack!"**

Voldemort's pale face flushed slightly and his mouth hung open, flabbergasted by this sudden and unexpectedly petty humiliation. Before he could muster a dignified response, he felt his stomach churn emptily, and he was assailed by a sudden, intense hunger.

Enraged from being ignored, dismissed, and now mocked, and spurred on by his pride and his stomach, Voldemort's restraint caved and he launched a flying lunge toward the bag.

Unfortunately, the gravity around him decided to quadruple at the height of his lunge, sending him crashing stomach-first into the floor once again.

Sauron's laugh was like sheet metal on concrete.

"**Good boy. Now roll over and I shall give you a treat."**

One of the Cheetos floated out of the bag and began circling inches over Voldemort's head like a tiny, orange moon. Pushing himself up, he swiftly tried to snatch it from the air, only to have his hand rebel against him and slap him across the face before he was crushed down to the floor again.

Voldemort seethed with rage and frustration. _'Just what is this prat trying to pull?! Blast it, I need to figure this out, but I'm bloody starv-'_

His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

'_Hold the owl….'_

Once again, he rose to his feet and dusted off his robes.

"I'm on to you."

Sauron, now grinding Cheetos under his shoes, glanced at him and smiled patronizingly.

"**Is that so? How adorable. Care to test your delusions?"**

Voldemort squared his feet, took a long deep breath, and strode briskly forward. As he did so, he felt a crushing weight on him, like an overstuffed bookbag. The weight increased with every step, but he kept his breathing slow and his mind focused.

'_Just a few more steps…GAH!'_

Voldemort gritted his teeth as he felt multiple heavy blows, as if from a cricket bat, fall about his back and shoulders, causing him to stumble forward.

'_Keep it together…almost there..'_

With one final surge of effort, he lunged forward and clumsily slapped the bag from Sauron's hand, sending Cheetos flying everywhere.

"Now stay the hell out of my head," he growled, gasping from exertion.

Sauron glared at him like a child whose toy had been taken away.

"**So you are intelligent after all. How annoying." **

He shrugged philosophically.

"**I suppose you would not be very useful otherwise. How did you know?"**

Voldemort smiled smugly, his old self-assurance returning rapidly.

"I have accepted that, despite my best efforts to the contrary, I am in fact, for the time being at least, rather…(his eye twitched erratically for a moment )… dead."

He pointed to his transparent stomach.

"And if that is the case, I needed only ask myself: why am I hungry? I know from experience that the absence of a body mitigates hunger. Once I realized that, the only possible explanation was that my consciousness was being tampered with. After that, was simply a matter of applying Occlumency."

He conveniently neglected to comment on how hard he had been pushed, even as a master in the technique.

"**Ah, you are indeed shrewd, mortal. However, you only scratch the surface."**

Voldemort started at the voice behind him, and turned around to see Sauron inexplicably back at his desk.

"How did you-"

"**The Void is a reality vacuum, little shade. Matter, energy, physics, time, everything you see, hear, or feel is a manifestation of a thought."**

The room suddenly flipped upside down, and Voldemort found himself standing on what was now the ceiling and suppressing the urge to vomit his mind imposed on him.

"**Far before the universe we helped build had even begun, the First Dark Lord and I were born from Thoughts, spirits of pure consciousness. In cloaks of flesh we were forces of nature. Here, we are beyond nature."**

The room flipped back into position, but everything began bending and stretching, changing colors and shapes and sizes until it all resembled some freakish surrealism painting. A magenta thundercloud spawned on the ceiling and began raining socks. Seconds later, it all snapped back into a sterile and uncomfortable waiting room.

"**Everything you perceive here was born from our wills, completely under our dominion and subject to change at the slightest whim."**

Sauron leered at him with the eyes of a collector.

"**Just now, you had the mental skill and capacity to impose an amendment on our reality, however small. Many candidates can barely maintain their accustomed form. Yes, indeed, you may have a chance."**

Voldemort felt real hope welling up inside him for the first time since his death.

"Then, have I passed your test? I can be resurrected now?"

Sauron stared at him for a few seconds, his mouth slightly ajar, until he suddenly burst out laughing hysterically, a sound that surprised Voldemort in how perfectly human it sounded.

"**What? Hell, no. I just get bored and like to mess with the applicants."**

Voldemort stood very still for a few seconds, walked off, and started beating his head against the wall.

"**Oi, don't chip the paint. Now get over here, I have a present for you."**

He dragged himself back to the desk, where Sauron was riffling through a filing cabinet made of what appeared to be black iron.

"**No fancy plaque for you quite yet, new blood, but I can give you something almost as good."**

He pulled his hand from the drawer clutching a thick stack of paper and slapped it down on the counter.

"**Paperwork!" **he exclaimed, sounding genuinely excited as he handed an exasperated Voldemort a quill and inkpot. **"Have fun!"  
**

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(A/N) Well, the category does say humor, doesn't it? Time we started having more of that.  
Sorry that this took awhile to post, folks! I've been bogged down with college finals for the past month or so. Please leave a review, they make me write faster!  
See ya'll again soon!


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